


New Beginnings

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Leap of Faith - Menken/Slater/Cercone, The Path (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Leap of Faith AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 07:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: This is a Leap of Faith AU where Sam Nightingale meets...Jackson Neill (from The Path). I'm not sorry.This is a companion piece to my fic "Working Something Out," which explores the relationship between Jonas Nightingale and Sonny Carisi. You do not have to read that to read this one, but if you want to, it'shere(and this fic specifically runs parallel to chapter three of that one).





	New Beginnings

“I’ve got some information on your sheriff.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” her brother answered, turning toward her.

“You _need_ to—”

“No, Sam. I told you, he’s off-limits.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but this is something you need to know. About his family.”

“Family? Do you hear yourself? The man is sheriff, if we mention his family he’ll throw us out of town—if we’re lucky. If not, you can say goodbye to your big brother for five to—”

“Would you listen to me? For _once_?” she asked.

“No, Sam—They’re not a part of the show.”

“Well _she_ can’t be, because even _you_ can’t fake a return from the grave.”

Jonas had begun to turn away, and he stopped, looking back at her. “What…”

“Oh, you’re interested?” She saw his jaw clench, saw his eyes flash. She wasn’t intimidated. “He had a wife, Jonas. She died two years ago, car crash. Now he lives with his—”

“Stop,” he said, and the harshness in his voice surprised her into silence. Glaring at her, he repeated, “He’s off-limits.”

“I told you we couldn’t make money off these people!” she suddenly exclaimed, unable to contain her frustration. “I don’t work miracles, Jonas, remember? You have to let me do my job.”

“You do your job, then,” he said. “There’s a whole town to pick apart.”

Her lips parted. She couldn’t have explained why, but those words hurt. Her stomach burned, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the sting behind her eyes. Jonas started to turn away, again, and hesitated, looking back at her. His eyes softened.

“I always listen to you, Sam,” he said. “But you have to trust me. We’ll make it work, we always do. There’s another way.”

“Whatever you say, Jonas,” she told him. He sighed. “No, really, I’m sure it’ll all just magically work out.”

She thought he was going to say something else, but he reconsidered. With a single, sad nod, he left her standing alone. She watched him walk away, and she hated the churning in her stomach. It was getting more and more difficult to keep the show running, to keep the ends tied, and she was no longer as sure as she’d once been that things would continue to _work out_.

“Your brother, yes?”

Sam turned toward the sound of the voice, startled, and glanced the man over, taking stock: khakis, white shirt, blue tie, gray cardigan. He had graying stubble across his chin, and his hair was a bit mussed from the wind. He was handsome, with watchful, attentive green eyes. Teacher, she guessed, or perhaps psychologist.

“Is he always so dismissive of your concerns?”

“Are you a shrink?” she asked.

He smiled. “No. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

_Reporter?_ She frowned. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a journalist, and she didn’t like being wrong. “What kind of questions?” she asked, even though she knew she was about to nip this conversation in the bud. There would be no interviews.

He tipped his head, regarding her, and she fought the urge to shift her feet. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her—like he could _read_ her. Reading people was her job, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end.

“Do you believe what your brother preaches?” he asked.

“What paper do you work for?”

“I don’t. I’m writing a book, actually.”

“A book. On what?”

He waved a hand toward the empty stage, with a flick of his wrist, and said, “So-called _miracles_ are a dime a dozen at these types of shows, and they can almost all be debunked in a matter of minutes. And yet, people show up, night after night, town after town, lining up to hand over their hard-earned money. I’ve gotta say, the concept fascinates me.”

“But you’re not a shrink.”

“No. I have a doctorate in new American religions.”

“This is not a new religion,” she said.

“No. Let’s just say I needed a break from studying…cults. I’ve been to a lot of these _revivals_. I will say your brother is one of the most…charismatic. I can see why women—and men—are drawn to him.”

“I’m afraid you missed the boat this time around—I’m pretty sure he’s filled his bed for the weekend, but you can always try your luck in the next town.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I bet he’s fun.”

She hesitated, caught off guard. She wouldn’t have guessed he was interested in her brother. Based on his body language, she’d thought he was sort of interested in _her_. “I was kidding,” she said.

“So was I,” he answered with a smile. “He’s not my type. Although I’ll bet he _is_ fun. Let’s hope whomever he’s sleeping with can keep up.”

“I’m sorry, did you come to talk about my brother’s sex life, or…?”

He laughed again, and she tried to ignore how _attractive_ his laugh was. She scowled and crossed her arms, and he made an attempt to appear serious. “Sorry,” he said. “No. Actually, I didn’t even know your show was going to be here. I was on my way to—”

“Our bus broke down,” she cut in, tapping her foot to show her impatience. “I’d hate to keep you, though—I’m sure we’d be quite boring to someone as…educated as you.”

A small frown wrinkled his brow, and he said, “I’m unsure how I’ve managed to insult you.”

She was again taken aback. “I’m not insulted,” she said, although she _was_ feeling self-conscious. To someone like him, her lack of education must be glaringly obvious. She wasn’t used to feeling so insecure, but his eyes were too _watchful_. And why was he being so polite and pleasant? She was being intentionally rude, and he was worried about hurting her feelings?

“Do you mind if I talk to some of your…performers?”

“Angels.”

“Angels, then. May I?”

“Why are you asking me?” she said. “They can talk to whoever they want.”

“It seems pretty clear that you run things,” he answered, further surprising her. “Also, I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’m sneaking around behind your back. Or that I have any underhanded motives. I’m not interested in...insulting their faiths. I’m only interested in honest conversations, from those willing to engage.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “You already said the miracles can be debunked. A professor of religions—surely discrediting faiths is part of the job.”

“Faith cannot be discredited,” he answered. “Certain aspects of religions can be disproven, some cannot. Faith itself requires no proof. And I’ve never claimed to have all the answers. If I believed that, I wouldn’t continue…learning, _trying_ to learn, researching.”

“Searching,” she suggested.

It was his turn to look surprised. He considered. “I suppose that’s fair, yes,” he said. “Would you answer some questions?”

“No,” she said. She needed to get away from him. For some reason, he’d scrambled her thoughts and frazzled her nerves. “Sorry, I just…don’t have time,” she added. She started to turn away, and his voice stopped her.

“It’s Sam, right?” When she hesitated and looked back, he said, “Is it Sam Nightingale?” She felt a flutter of unease, and it must’ve shown on her face. He held up a hand. “Just Sam, then,” he said, before she could figure out how to answer. Then he lowered his hand, extending it toward her. She shook it automatically, before she even realized what she was doing. His palm was warm, and she felt an unwelcome pull of desire at the touch. He held her hand for a moment. As he released her, a small smile curved his lips, and he said, “Jackson Neill.”

 

*       *       *

 

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them that the Lord values patience.”

Sam smiled, but it felt tight. “You know we’ll settle up as soon as we can, Ida Mae,” she said.

The older woman put a hand on her shoulder. “I know, Sam. You and Jonas always come through. But lately…things are tighter and tighter. And the Angels are getting antsy.”

“They’ll be paid, I give you my word.”

Ida Mae sighed. “Sam, you and I are the only ones who know how bad the books are. With the bus breaking down, we’re gonna have a hard enough time just getting out of this town, let alone—”

“Sunday night, we’ll have a miracle. We’ll get the money.”

“These people don’t have much to give,” Ida Mae said.

“We’ll give them something so big they won’t be able to resist,” Sam said.

Ida Mae hesitated. “Well, sugar, I know you have a plan—you always do. But even Jonas can’t make it rain unless it’s God’s will. And with the sheriff already snooping into our finances—”

“Jonas has the sheriff occupied,” Sam cut in. “And don’t worry about Jonas, he can take care of himself. We’ll get the money for the bus, and the Angels will get their pay. Just tell them to have faith for a little longer.”

Ida Mae sighed. “It’s not faith they’re lacking, love,” she said. “And speaking of faith, what should we do about the professor snooping around?”

“Is he being…obnoxious?”

With her eyebrows raised, Ida Mae said, “Obnoxious? Lord, no, the boy’s charming as all get-out. I’m trying to keep Ornella away from him. But he’s asking all sorts of questions about Jonas, and you—”

“Me?”

“Wants to know if you and your brother are true believers,” Ida Mae said. She rolled her eyes. “He seems to think maybe Jonas is conning us all.”

“He’s not a cop. And his book isn’t about us, specifically. Just…let him poke and prod if that’s what he wants. We’ll be out of here Monday morning. He might be charming, but he doesn’t stand a chance if he decides to take on my brother.”

“Eavesdropping is a terrible habit,” a voice said, and Sam and Ida Mae turned toward the sound, startled. Jackson held up a hand. “One in which I never partake—intentionally. I apologize, I didn’t want to interrupt, but I can’t in good conscience—”

“How long have you been there?” Sam asked.

“Too long,” he admitted with a grimace. “Sorry.”

Sam looked at Ida Mae. “Thanks,” she said, touching a hand to the older woman’s arm. “I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Ida Mae nodded and, casting a look at Jackson, left them alone. Sam put her hands on her hips and faced the professor. “Do you just get your rocks off by going around listening to people talk about you?” He’d lost his sweater and tie, and she couldn’t blame him. It was still early, and the day had already grown hot.

He raised his eyebrows. “I rarely stumble upon people talking about me.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered.

He grinned, and she had to clench her jaw and narrow her eyes to keep from smiling in return. “You said something about letting me poke and prod? Does that extend to you?”

“I—What?” she asked, flustered. She felt her cheeks beginning to heat and cursed herself.

“Will you answer some questions?”

“Oh,” she answered, blushing more furiously than ever.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, or…a slice of pie or something? Ask a few questions? It’ll be painless.”

“Poking and prodding is rarely painless,” she said.

“I promise to be gentle,” he answered, and her heart stuttered in her chest. She tried to tell herself that the nervous flutter in her stomach, the hollow ache in her lower belly, the hot flush in her cheeks—that these things had nothing to do with desire. She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t alarmingly attracted to him.

She was an accomplished liar, but even she couldn’t fool herself this time.

He tipped his head a bit, regarding her.

She cleared her throat. “Why are you so…”

“Persistent?” he suggested with a small smile.

“Interested,” she countered. “I guarantee, I have nothing to add to your book, Professor—Dr. Neill, or whatever I call you.”

“Jackson.”

“I can’t get you an interview with my brother, if that’s what you’re looking for. You’ll have to try to pin him down yourself.”

“I’m not interested in talking to your brother,” he said. “Well,” he added, bobbing his head, “I _am_ , but that’s not—How about lunch?”

She blinked, surprised. “Does that mean the offer of pie is off the table?” she heard herself asking. “Because I was sort of…warming to the idea of pie.”

He chuckled. “Lunch _and_ pie, of course,” he said. “And coffee.”

“Fine, but I promise you, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“I doubt that,” he said, smiling.

 

*       *       *

 

There was something oddly sensual about the way he ate apple pie, and she had to keep reminding herself to pull her gaze away from his mouth. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t commented. He’d been asking her innocuous questions—What kind of music did she like? What was her favorite book?

They were personal questions, not related to Jonas or the revival, but they weren’t _overly_ personal. He’d been making small talk all through lunch, and she’d even asked him a few questions of her own—how long had he been teaching? Did he have another career path in mind? How long was he planning on traveling the country, researching revivals?

By the time their pie arrived, however, she’d begun to feel guilty. She didn’t like the feeling, and she didn’t like feeling as though she owed him anything. Nevertheless, she’d agreed to answer questions for his book. He was buying her lunch and hadn’t yet asked one question pertaining to Jonas or their show.

She realized she was staring at his mouth, again, and forced her eyes up to his. “Look,” she said, setting her fork down and putting her elbows on the table. “I appreciate the whole _nice guy_ routine you’ve got going on, alright? What’s your favorite color, what’re your hopes and dreams, did you turn out like this because your father was a piece of shit alcoholic—but you don’t have to pretend to be interested in my life.”

“Who’s pretending?” he asked quietly.

“You’re worried about offending me, don’t be, I’m not breakable. Ask me what you came to ask.”

“Was he abusive?”

“What?” she asked. Her heart was suddenly dancing nervously in her chest. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned her father—Jackson hadn’t asked her about her childhood.

Jackson leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, as well. She had to fight her urge to sit back. She had to struggle to hold his steady gaze. “Your father. Was he abusive?”

She didn’t mean to answer. She never discussed her childhood, not with anyone. Ida Mae knew a bit, because she’d been around a long time. But no one except Sam and Jonas knew what it had really been like.

Jackson’s expression was kind, his green gaze perceptive, and she heard herself saying, “Not to me. Not when Jonas was around.”

“Was it just the two of you?” he asked.

“It’s always been just the two of us.”

“Ah,” he said.

She frowned. “Don’t say _ah_ like you understand something. I know you think my brother is a fraud—”

“I don’t know what your brother is or isn’t. I haven’t spoken to him. But I did speak to your…Angels. And they love him. Oh, they made jokes. Even hungover, Jonas can run circles around any evangelist, and just imagine if he ever tried it _without_ a hangover. He’s slept with half of every town you’ve been to, and the other half is jealous. He’s the only gambler who always manages to break even without ever winning. But they love him. I don’t know if they all believe what he preaches, but they believe in _him_. He may be a con artist, but unless he’s really bad at it—which I doubt—he’s not in it to get rich. Most of these guys live in mansions and drive fancy cars and wear ten thousand dollar watches when they’re not out _slumming it_ in these small towns—”

“ _Most of these guys_?” she repeated, cutting him off. “Look, _Professor_ , my brother might drink, and sleep around, and gamble, and…bend the truth. But life isn’t handed to everyone on a silver platter, and we do what we have to do to survive. Maybe you think that’s an excuse, a copout, a…justification for bad behavior, but my brother…All he ever wanted was to sing, to perform, to…to make people happy. My earliest memories are of watching him sing in church, or dancing in the backyard, he used to put on shows for me and my toys, and—” She broke off, giving her head a shake to clear it. She hadn’t meant to get nostalgic. “But as for conning people? Maybe you don’t think it’s… _godly_ to convince someone to, say, buy a car they don’t need.”

“I would hesitate to use the word ‘godly’ applied to any man,” he said.

“Men feel godly all the time. I daresay even you,” she added. “Maybe you don’t like the word. Maybe you’d prefer…powerful. It’s the same thing in the end. But some men convince people to spend their money on cars or TVs or timeshares in the Caribbean.”

“Your brother convinces them to spend their money on miracles,” he said.

“If he can talk a person out of an addiction, is that a miracle? If he can convince a girl who hasn’t spoken in three years to talk to her parents, is that a miracle? If he can get a man who hasn’t walked without crutches—”

“People with blind faith are susceptible to manipulation,” Jackson interrupted. “And desperate people who want to believe in miracles can, in fact, create their own…unexplained—”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is, if you’re only in town for three days, it’s easy to convince a man he’s no longer addicted to nicotine or gambling or…sex, or whatever. But after you—after Jonas leaves town, how long do you think it takes for those cravings to return? What you’re talking about, it can work for trained hypnotherapists, or psychologists, but without the proper follow-up care—” He stopped and let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, surprising her. “I didn’t mean to…” He waved his hand, grimacing.

“Preach?” she suggested.

He smiled. “Right. Would you like more coffee?”

She glanced at her cup. “No. Thanks. I have to get back and set up for rehearsals.” She slid her plate aside and put her hand on the table, turning to get up.

He reached out and touched her wrist, lightly, stopping her. “I know it might feel like it’s too late to…change the course of your life,” he said. His expression was earnest, and his fingers were warm against her wrist. “It’s not. There are so many things—”

She pulled her arm away and pushed to her feet. He leaned back in his seat, looking up at her, and she could sense his disappointment. Or perhaps it was merely frustration.

“You think of yourself as open-minded, but you’re a lot more judgemental than you think you are. And it might be easy for you to point fingers at Jonas, but I’d say you’re the one with the savior complex. I doubt that worked well for you in those cults you mentioned.” She saw his wince and continued: “I don’t need you to save me, Dr. Neill. And trying would be a waste of your time.”

“Sam,” he said when she started away. She thought he might get up, follow her, but he didn’t. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said, walking away from him.

 

*       *       *

 

“You’ll have your money Monday morning.”

As the mechanic walked away, Sam lowered her head and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and finger. The bus was fixed; now they just needed to pay for it—or sneak out of town before Monday morning. Jonas had talked the motel owner into comping several rooms, one for Jonas and the rest for the Angels. Sam could’ve had one for herself, but she chose, as always, to stay on the bus. They might not have to worry about the vehicle being stripped, not in a place like Sweetwater, but old habits died hard. Without the bus, they would be screwed.

She didn’t know if they could get enough money from the residents of the town, even with a ‘miracle.’ Getting money from Sweetwater would be like getting blood from a stone, but she couldn’t convince Jonas of that.

He had no idea how dire their finances really were. Jackson had been right—Jonas wasn’t in the game to get rich. He didn’t care about money. He _did_ care about keeping himself, his sister, and their choir fed and sheltered, he cared about keeping liquor in his flask and fuel in the bus, and he was willing to sweet-talk, schmooze, and seduce to keep their operation running. But, money? That was Sam’s department, Sam’s and Ida Mae’s. Jonas knew that they’d been creative with their books and lax on their taxes, but he didn’t ask for details.

And Sam didn’t volunteer them. Jonas had already done a few short stints in small jailhouses. She would do whatever she could to keep him from anything more serious. Plausible deniability might end up saving him in the end.

They were going to need a big _miracle_ on Sunday, and her brother wasn’t going to like it. Not when he found out what she had in mind. She didn’t like it, herself, but the boy was their only hope. Their only other option was to load up and sneak out of town before the kind and generous, and desperate, residents realized they’d been swindled.

“Sam, we’re missing three speaker cables.”

She lifted her head. “Missing?”

Jed cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Uh. We had ‘em last night. But…”

She suppressed a sigh. Maybe Sweetwater wasn’t as _sweet_ as it seemed, after all. Why someone would steal the cables, and not the speakers, was beyond her, though. “There’s one extra under the driver’s seat of the bus. Take that for now, stagger the speakers further apart for rehearsals. We can make do being down two speakers if we have to but I’ll see what I can do.”

“There’s a hardware store, they might have something?”

She shook her head. “Go on with the setup. And, Jed? Everything is going to be locked up tonight, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned and saw Jackson talking to Ornella. The young woman had her hand on his arm and her brightest smile plastered on her face. Jackson had his head tipped toward her, eyes focused on her face while she talked, but as Sam watched, his gaze flicked up to hers for a moment. She faltered, flustered.

She gave herself a mental shake, frowned, and took off, striding toward town.

As she neared Main Street, she caught sight of her brother, and she slowed to a stop. He was on the baseball field with a boy— _the_ boy—in a wheelchair. She felt a nervous wiggle in her stomach. Jonas seemed to be showing the kid something on a keyboard the boy had across the armrests of his chair.

_Don’t get attached, Jonas_ , she thought. _We need him_.

She stood there for a few moments, and it occurred to her that there must be something wrong with her. _Attached? He’s not a stray dog, he’s a child_ , she thought, with the acid of self-loathing churning in her stomach.

“He’s good with kids.”

Sam jumped, whirling toward the sound of the voice, cursing herself for being caught off guard. She never let anyone sneak up on her, and Jackson had now managed to startle her three times in one day. She tried to glare at him, but his expression held wariness and contrition, and she couldn’t maintain her dirty look. He didn’t deserve it, anyway.

“He’s good with everyone,” she muttered, turning away from the professor and starting along the sidewalk.

“I owe you an apology,” Jackson said, trailing along behind her.

“No, you don’t,” she answered. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sam, please,” he said. She stopped, turning to face him. “I had no right to…presume to tell you what you should do with your life. I just…I don’t want to judge, I just want to understand. If you’ll give me another chance to observe…”

“Observe?” she repeated. “Ornella would be happy to show you around. She knows all the backstage secrets, believe me, and she loves to gossip. You’ll have a good time with her.”

“I’m not interested in—” He stopped, a small frown creasing his brow, and regarded her for a few seconds. She resisted the urge to fidget. “I’d like to spend my time with you, if you’ll allow it.”

She was again caught off guard by his directness. He kept throwing her off. She couldn’t imagine why he would be interested in her company. “I can’t stop you,” she said.

His expression tightened. “Absolutely, you can,” he said, quietly. “If you tell me to leave you alone, you won’t see me again.”

She didn’t want that, and the realization alarmed her. She almost told him to go away simply because she wanted him to stay. She bit back the words and said, instead, “Do you have a bad back or anything?”

He hesitated, blinking. “Excuse me?” he finally asked.

“I might need you to carry something. I’m headed to the school to see if I can talk them out of some cables, but we also have a split hose, we need water jugs—”

“Say no more,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “Just load me up and tell me which way to go.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Fine, you can tag along,” she said. “Prepare to be bored.” She cast another glance toward her brother and the boy as she started up the sidewalk.

“May I ask something, and this is without judgement—” He hesitated, looking sideways at her as they walked, waiting for her permission. She nodded. “Does your brother—Jonas—believe that he can heal someone like that kid?”

“Are you just asking if he’s a conman?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “I…” He looked over his shoulder. “Look, I have my opinions on the monetary aspect, and I have my opinions on the religious aspect. But I can see a real smile on his face right now, and I could see the…sort of… _love_ he has for performing, when he was rehearsing. You said he can…talk people into or out of things, addictions, whatnot.”

“Which you pointed out was probably temporary and most likely dangerous,” she said.

He grimaced and waved a hand. “Forget anything I said that sounded…jackassy. I’m genuinely curious about his motivations.”

She sighed. “Does Jonas believe that he can heal people?” She hesitated.

He stopped walking and, after a couple of steps, so did she. She turned toward him, and he surprised her again. “Off the record,” he said. “While I can’t and won’t condone the…fleecing of desperate people, I also won’t go around trying to discredit what I don’t fully understand. You have my word, I won’t use anything you say about your brother against you, or him, or…the show.”

She had no real reason to trust him. She’d only just met him, and she’d learned early on that people were built to lie. Even so, she _did_ trust him. She was fully aware that it might come back to bite her, but she found herself answering honestly. She could still see her brother, out in the field, and she felt a twinge of guilt for talking about him.

“No, he doesn’t think he can heal people, people who are…really sick, or…or hurt, but that doesn’t mean he can’t _help_ people,” she said. “Look, my brother can be…abrasive, obnoxious…loud, brash, overbearing…egotistical…” She frowned. “Well, no, actually, if anything he thinks too little of himself, but…all the other things, he can be a lot to take, I get that. I can hardly stand him myself, half the time.” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. She’d just spouted a bunch of negative-sounding adjectives, and she wanted to make it clear that they were just a small part of who Jonas was, just the armor he wore against the world.

“He doesn’t believe in himself, but you do,” Jackson said.

She opened her mouth, and closed it again, frowning. Finally, she said, “I’ve seen things I can’t explain. I’m not delusional, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course, it’s not. You have faith in your brother.”

“Yes,” she answered, and he nodded, seeming to accept that.

“So,” he said, resuming their walk. She fell into step beside him. “What kind of cables are we looking for?”

 

*       *       *

 

Jackson had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair was damp at his forehead and the nape of his neck. Sam kept sneaking glances at him as they walked; she couldn’t help herself.

He kept looking at her, too, and every time their eyes met she felt a pleasant flutter in her stomach. He had an endearing little half-smile, and he somehow—without even trying—made her feel attractive.

She was sweating, too, even though he was carrying the heavy stuff: the coil of green garden hose that she’d borrowed from the hardware store, the wound lengths of speaker cable she’d convinced the high school A/V club to offer on loan, and an armful of books salvaged from the discard bin at the library. She was carrying two empty water jugs. She felt a little guilty, and not just about the disparate weight distribution.

“Your shirt’s going to be filthy,” she said, glancing at the dirty hose wrapped around his arm.

He shrugged a shoulder, offering her that half-smile. “It’s just a shirt,” he said. “When my kids were little, I think I went through five a day.”

She tried not to think about the way her heart had just stumbled. “You have kids?” she asked, after taking a moment to gather her composure. She didn’t think he was married—he wasn’t wearing a ring—but she hadn’t asked.

“Mmhmm,” he said. She was looking straight ahead, now, but she could feel his eyes on her. “Two. They’re currently at Disneyland with my ex-wife and her…boyfriend.”

Sam noted the hesitation, of course, and glanced at him. “Is that weird for you?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“Your ex having her boyfriend on vacation with your kids.”

“He’s a nice enough guy. The kids like him. I guess I just feel weird about the word.”

“Boyfriend?”

He laughed. “Yeah. What about you? Do you ever look around these towns and think about starting a family?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he said, “Sorry, too personal?”

“I don’t think about it, much,” she said, which wasn’t exactly true. She’d been thinking about it more and more, lately. “But a town like this? No. I might’ve come from the sticks but I’m never going back. A place this quiet might be good for a while, but I like the city. The noise, the pace, everything. I’d go crazy in a place like this. Is this what you want?”

He sniffed, looking around. “It has its appeal,” he said. “There’ve been times when I wondered if I should’ve raised my kids in a place like this, where everyone knows everyone and you can hear yourself think. But, no. Maybe when I’m eighty and ready to retire.”

She smiled. “You’re not gonna retire off this book you’re writing?”

He chuckled. “Even if I can convince more than three people to read it, no. I’ll teach until they throw me out.”

“Teaching religious studies to a bunch of obnoxious twenty-year-olds?” she asked. “Is it really that great?”

Grinning, he said, “They can be obnoxious, yes, but I used to teach eighth graders. Trust me, they’re scarier.”

“I’ll bet you’re everyone’s favorite professor,” she said. “You probably grade on attendance and bake the class cookies.”

He laughed, turning his head to look at her, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Bake cookies?” he repeated.

His beauty in the bright sunlight stole her breath, and she had to struggle to keep her voice steady. “Tell the truth,” she said.

He was still laughing, and she wanted to kiss him. The impulse shocked her. “Once,” he said. “I baked cookies _one time_.”

She laughed, trying to ignore her flush of desire. Hopefully he would think she was just overheated. “I knew it,” she answered. “Was it a birthday? Or did you just feel guilty about giving them a test or something?”

He cleared his throat.

She stopped walking, looking at him. “Seriously?”

He turned to face her. His expression was sheepish. “Actually, I gave a test that everyone but one student failed.” He hesitated, and she knew that wasn’t the whole story.

“Because?” she prompted.

“Because my wife moved out and took the kids to her mother’s house and filed for divorce within the span of a week and I was…”

“Cranky?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“That’s rough,” she said. “Why’d she leave? Did you cheat on her?”

He seemed startled by the idea. “No,” he answered.

She read his expression. “She cheated on you,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and she saw his throat bob as he swallowed. “Sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “But hey, on the bright side, now you’re free to sleep with all the pretty young college girls that’re no doubt falling at your feet.”

He regarded her in silence for a few moments, chewing the inside of his lower lip. “I would never sleep with a student,” he finally said. “It would be unethical.”

“So if I enrolled in your class?” she asked, but she felt a surge of guilt for making a joke just to cover her own discomfort. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Look, I didn’t mean to…offend you, or whatever.”

“I’m not offended,” he said quietly. “And for the record, I’m not trying to sleep with you.”

She tried to think of something to say. “I…”

“Not because I don’t want to,” he added, shifting the stack of books he was holding. “Because, also for the record, I find you very attractive, and to answer your question, if you were enrolled in my class, I’d be distracted all the time and probably bake a lot more cookies.” He turned and started walking, but slowly, and she fell into step beside him. “Sex is all well and good, Sam—”

She snorted. “Well and good? I don’t want to speak ill of your ex, but she sounds like a bore.”

He smiled, and finished, “But romance is better.”

“Isn’t the point of romance to get to the sex?” she asked.

“The point of romance is _romance_ ,” he said. “Making breakfast in bed, or sending someone flowers on a random Wednesday just so they know you were thinking about them? Celebrating your six-month anniversaries and…waking up early each morning just so you have longer to spend curled up together? Nicknames, secret jokes, holding hands, showering together— _crying_ together, all of it.” He turned toward her again. His shirt was stuck to his sweaty shoulders and back, and they were never going to make it to the bus if they kept stopping. “Forgive me, Sam, but it really pains me to think you haven’t had anyone love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

“You don’t even know me,” she muttered. Her heart was racing. She was caught between her instincts for fight and flight. There were sarcastic, cruel words perched on her tongue; her feet were itching to run. “Maybe I’ve been _loved_ exactly the way I deserve.” She didn’t know she was going to say it until the words were hanging in the hot air between them.

He studied her face, and she forced herself to keep her gaze from dropping. “I don’t think so,” he said, and his voice was soft. He let out a breath. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. And, at the risk of undermining my, uh…rugged masculinity, these books weigh about ten times what they did when we started out.”

“And it’s hotter than hell,” she said, as they started walking.

“It’s a shame your brother can’t give the county a little rain.” When she shot him a look, he said, “I’m serious. This place is about to blow away.”

She looked around at the town. She’d meant what she said: she wouldn’t want to settle into a small town, Sweetwater or any other. That didn’t mean she couldn’t see its appeal, though. “It’s a shame,” she said, quietly. She squinted up at the cloudless sky.

_If he could make it rain, we wouldn’t need the kid_ , she thought, looking toward the deserted baseball field. Her brother was nowhere in sight, and neither was the boy. _Jonas isn’t going to like it._

 

*       *       *

 

“Who’s the guy who’s been snooping around?”

“What guy?” Sam asked without looking up.

“The old guy who looks…soft and professor-ish.”

She lifted her head. “He’s not old,” she said, without thinking. She saw Jonas’s smirk, and clenched her jaw.

“Just soft and professor-ish?” Jonas teased. “Maybe he should do something about the gray, then,” he said, pinching at his own hair near his temple.

“He _is_ a professor, he’s got a doctorate in new American religions. He’s writing a book about revivals. And not everyone has a love affair with vanity,” she said, and her brother laughed. “Besides, he’s only six years older than you.”

Jonas tipped his head. “By my calculations, that makes him eight years older than _you_ ,” he told her. “I’m tempted to ask how you know, since it seems unlikely you’d come right out and ask…” He narrowed his eyes, regarding her, and she felt herself flushing. “You Googled him, didn’t you?”

She crossed her arms to keep from fidgeting. “It’s my job to dig up information on people,” she said, hating the defensiveness in her own voice.

“Oh, so you found something we can use? Great, we’ll make a believer out of him.”

“No,” she said, harsher than she’d intended, and she saw Jonas’s smile. She cursed herself for continuing to rise to his bait, but his smile was gentle, now. That was somehow worse. Jonas understood her as no one else ever had. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “He won’t cause problems. If I have to, I’ll keep him distracted until we leave town. He won’t follow us, he’s got a hundred other revivals to visit.”

“If you have to,” Jonas said, softly, and she could see the sadness in his smile. She didn’t want his pity. “Sam,” he said, with a sigh. “You’re allowed to—”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” she cut in, because she didn’t want to have this conversation. “I get along fine, thanks.”

“Right,” Jonas said. “God forbid you actually care about someone.”

“You’re one to talk!” she exclaimed, but they both knew that caring about people had never been his problem. Their father had always said he was too sensitive, but Sam knew the truth. Jonas had always felt things deeply, had always loved wholeheartedly, and he’d always been fiercely loyal to anyone who treated him with kindness.

Yes, he could convince a widow to hand over her wedding ring, but she would do so with a smile. Yes, he could take a different person to bed each night, but he never left them feeling disrespected or unappreciated. Yes, if he felt cornered or betrayed, he could cut a person in half with the sharpness of his tongue.

Jonas loved performing. He got his high not from the dollars landing in the baskets, but the smiles on people’s faces. Their money kept him fed, but their cheers were what nurtured him. Jonas was the most alive when he was on a stage, and he took no pleasure from fooling people. When he convinced a man to quit smoking, it didn’t matter if it was really God’s will or not. What mattered to Jonas was that he’d impacted someone’s life, that he’d left a mark. Jonas wanted desperately to be loved, to be appreciated. To be respected.

Sam knew the feeling. It was something they shared, a remnant of their childhood. They’d spent their formative years searching in vain for the love of a parent. They’d craved affection and acceptance, and they’d turned to each other. He’d been her best friend, her protector. And then she’d become _his_ protector. It had been a gradual shift. Every punch from their father had left more than a physical mark. Every cruel word had added an invisible scar.

Jonas felt things deeply, and Sam trained herself to keep her own feelings buried. She’d made herself into an emotional shield for him, the way he’d once been a physical shield for her. It had been the two of them against the world for as long as she could remember, and she didn’t know any other way of life. Until recently, she’d never allowed herself to fantasize about anything else.

They often argued. In fact, there were few things on which they’d ever seen eye to eye. But Jonas was the one person who would never betray her. She loved him, even when she wanted to strangle him. If it weren’t for him, she might not believe herself _capable_ of love.

But Jonas, he deserved the kind of all-in love—breakfast in bed, celebrating half-year anniversaries, flowers on Wednesdays, cuddling in the early morning light, affectionate nicknames, kisses both passionate and tender, holding hands on the sidewalk, shared showers, shoulders to cry on, private jokes, gazes filled with adoration—that he secretly craved. The years on the road were slowly eating away at him. Each performance gave him joy, but the rest of the life was wearing on him.

No matter whose bed he was in, he always fell asleep alone. He didn’t have to tell her that. They didn’t typically discuss their sex lives. Nor did she care about what he did with whom. What she cared about was the fact that, lately, even the performances couldn’t completely erase the sadness from around his eyes. The highs were no longer outweighing the lows.

She couldn’t stand to watch him destroying himself.

She wanted to set him free, and she didn’t know how. She wasn’t sure who she was without him and the show. She was terrified to examine herself in the mirror, afraid that she would see nothing but an outline, a shadow, in the reflection.

“Look, I’m not some helpless little girl anymore,” she said. She was horrified to feel tears burning her eyes, and she gritted her teeth, forcing them back.

“You were never helpless,” he answered quietly.

“So you don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “What you need to worry about is the show. We need to use the kid.” He knew that Jake was the sheriff’s son, now. She hadn’t been the one to tell him, and she hadn’t asked him what had happened.

“No.”

“No? _No?_ I’m telling you, we don’t have a choice, not if you want to get out of this godforsaken town.” When he was silent, she narrowed her eyes. “You do want to get out of here, right?”

“Of course,” he answered, but she wasn’t sure he believed himself. “But he’s the sheriff’s kid, and…Jake’s been through enough.”

“Oh, really? The world is cruel, Jonas, you know that. The sooner the kid learns that—”

“He knows about the cruelty of the world, Sam,” Jonas interrupted. “The one thing he has left is hope— _faith_. I won’t take that from him.”

“Everyone in town says it’s psychosomatic,” she said. “There’s no reason for him not to walk, no medical reason. It’s in his head, Jonas. All you have to do is convince him that God wants him to walk, and—”

“No,” he repeated, his tone harsh.

“He believes in you. He _will_ believe in you.”

“Yeah,” Jonas said, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Yeah, Sam.” She could hear the rawness in his voice, and it alarmed her. He was too emotionally invested, already. “And what if it’s _not_ all in his head, huh? He doesn’t need someone like me coming in and—”

“Is this because you’re sleeping with his father? You’ve done miracles on kids before.”

“This is different and you know it.”

“Everyone in town loves the kid. You can’t give them rain, Jonas, but you can give them something they want just as much. They’d each give their last penny to get that kid on his feet, you can see it in their faces when they look at him, when they talk about him. If you’re looking for a change, we can change. We can figure something out, but we have to get—”

“Sam.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he looked at her again, she could see the weariness around his eyes, the unhappiness around his mouth, the defeat in his posture. “I love you, sis,” he said, quietly. “But I can’t discuss this right now.”

Before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and strode away. She stood, staring after him, stunned. She was feeling a little bit of everything at once, all the emotions swirled together to leave her with a general sense of unease.

Her gaze shifted, and she caught Jackson’s eyes. He always seemed to be around; her eyes always seemed to find his. He’d changed into jeans and a gray t-shirt that accentuated the muscles in his arms, and she thought, _soft and professor-ish, my ass._

She didn’t think he was close enough to have heard the conversation. He certainly wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. She could feel his concern, though, could see it in his expression. He was worried about her, and she didn’t know how to deal with that. She didn’t know how to _feel_ about it. She turned her back on him and walked in the opposite direction of her brother. And Jackson.

 

*       *       *

 

“It’s Jackson, right?”

The professor turned. “Jonas Nightingale, at last,” he said, extending a hand. Jonas looked him over while shaking his hand. “Did Sam tell you I wanted to ask a few questions?”

“No,” Jonas answered. “Actually, I came to talk about her.”

“Your sister?” Jackson said, suddenly wary.

“You seem to have spent most of the day with her,” Jonas said. “Are you trying to screw her?”

Jackson blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“First of all, vulgarity aside, I—” He stopped, raising his hands when Jonas stepped closer.

Jonas poked him in the chest, and said, “She’s had enough assholes in her life. If you hurt her, I’ll bring hellfire raining down on your head, professor.”

“I appreciate your attempt to look out for your sister, here—Could you back up, please? Thanks,” Jackson said, smoothing the front of his shirt when Jonas took a step back. “I have no intention of hurting her, and I only met her this morning.”

“It only takes a few minutes,” Jonas said.

“Not for me, it doesn’t,” Jackson answered.

Jonas laughed, pointing at him. “ _Touché_. So. Jackson. What’s everyone been saying about me behind my back? Come on, don’t make me buy the book.”

“So far as I can tell, everyone loves you,” Jackson said. He saw something like guilt flit across Jonas’s features. “They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

“Hey,” Jonas said, spreading his arms. “What’s not to love?”

“I met you forty-five seconds ago.”

“Well, I like _you_ , doc,” Jonas said. “You’re an honest guy, I can tell. I’ll bet you’ve never told a lie in your life. Don’t let Sam scare you off.”

“I’m not—there’s nothing going on between—”

“Careful, now, don’t make this your first lie,” Jonas said. He pulled his flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the lid. He held the flask toward Jackson, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” Jackson said. “Thank you.”

Jonas smiled as he took a drink. Replacing the lid, he shook his head. “So polite, too. Ask me some questions, professor. I love to talk about myself.”

“Alright. Why do you do what you do?”

“Do what I do?” Jonas asked. “You mean the Lord’s work?”

“If that’s what you believe, then yes,” Jackson answered.

Jonas narrowed his eyes. “I think we both know the answer,” he said, all traces of humor gone from his expression. “We rip people off. No— _I_ rip people off. I use their secrets against them, I manipulate them, I give them false hope, and I take their money. And then I never see them again.” He shrugged, spreading his arms again, the flask glinting in one hand. “Do they go back to drinking? Cheating? Hitting their wives? Who knows. I get my money and I leave.”

“People ask for help…not hitting their wives?” Jackson asked, feeling ill.

Jonas’s expression contorted, and Jackson didn’t doubt the sincerity of his pain. “Oh, doc, you wouldn’t believe what sins people confess,” he said, softly. “They want God to cure them. So I put my hand on their forehead and I promise them absolution if they change their ways. And what promise does the bruised and battered young woman beside them get? What assurance does she have that the beatings will stop? Nothing but the word of a conman. We can phone in an anonymous tip—” He stopped, licking his lips as he gathered his thoughts. He shook his head and looked at Jackson. “What kind of man needs someone like me to tell him not to hit his wife? Not to fuck around on her? Not to hit his kids—” He pulled in a deep breath. “You’re an educated man, right, professor? Me, I never graduated high school, so maybe I just don’t get it.”

“There are a lot of terrible people in the world,” Jackson said. “But there’re good people, too. I have to believe that the good outnumber the bad.”

“And what absolution does a man deserve after hitting his wife and kids?”

Jackson swallowed. “I don’t know the answer to that,” he said.

“What kind of redemption is there for a man who offers false hope—” He stopped again. He opened his flask and drank the last of his liquor. He shook the empty bottle. “I need a refill,” he said.

“When you look into the face of a child with a black eye, and you see yourself,” Jackson said, “what do you do? You can tell me that you offer absolution to the father and take your money and leave, but I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you because of your sister, and Ida Mae, and Ornella, and every person I’ve talked to about you. I think what you do is tell the man that God will give him the strength to be better, you tell him that he has the power to change and be forgiven, and you take his money. And then? You get that money into his wife’s hand along with the phone number of someone who can help her. And then you whisper into that kid’s ear, and you tell him that God is on _his_ side, not his father’s, and that he will survive the hell in which he’s currently trapped and he will _thrive_ in the world, and there will come a day when his father can no longer touch him.”

Jonas opened his mouth but couldn’t find any words to speak.

“Is that false hope? Maybe. I don’t know,” Jackson said. “Maybe sometimes yes, sometimes no. Maybe they get away. Maybe they don’t. Nobody can save everyone, but false hope is still _hope_ , and sometimes that’s all we have to get us through the day. Hope for tomorrow. You want to know what people say behind your back?” Jackson bobbed his head, raising his eyebrows, and said, “They say a lot, Mr. Nightingale.”

He turned and walked away, and Jonas stared after him, stunned into speechlessness.

 

*       *       *

 

Sam didn’t have time to worry about Jackson or the sheriff once the show started. She had to make sure the microphones were working, that the Angels were on their marks, that Jonas’s earpiece was working. She had to make sure she knew which audience member was sitting in which seat—and she had to make sure that the sections were clearly marked, because otherwise Jonas wouldn’t know where to go.

She had to make sure Jonas was sober—she could smell the alcohol on his breath when he got to the stage, but she could also smell the coffee. He’d made an attempt to sober himself up, and she followed up on that by pumping him full of water. She made a mental note that they might need to add an extra two minutes to his wardrobe change for a bathroom break, but they would cross that bridge if it arose. Once Jonas was on stage, he was usually able to push everything else aside and focus on the show.

She had to make sure there was water readily available for him and for the rest of the performers and crew. She had to supervise the collection baskets: if they were circulated too soon, people would begin to feel antsy and might even decide to leave; if they were passed around too late, people might not want to pay for a show they’d already seen.

There were a lot of things to worry about, but she was relieved, once the show started, to see that Jonas seemed fully committed. He was in top form, and he barely looked at the kid—Jake—where he sat near the corner of the stage. And he didn’t, as far as Sam could tell, look at the sheriff a single time during the performance.

He sang. He danced. He smiled. He flirted.

He was kind, compassionate. He was witty, funny.

He went in every direction Sam pointed him, without hesitation, and even Sam, who’d seen his act more times than she could count, was impressed by the advice he was doling out. He was the best he’d been in years, and Sam—at first relieved by his performance—gradually became aware of an uneasiness growing within her.

As Jonas drove the revival toward its conclusion with the velocity of a barrel traveling Niagara Falls, she could see his increasing desperation. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was performing for the last time.

The thought filled her with dread.

 

*       *       *

 

“You disappeared after the show.”

Jackson stood in the doorway, looking out at her. “You had a lot going on,” he answered. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You weren’t avoiding me?”

“No.”

“Do you like me, Jackson?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I mean, _like_ me, like we’re in junior high and—”

“What’s wrong, Sam?” he asked quietly.

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside and pushed the door open wider. When she’d walked into his room, he closed the door with a soft click and turned to face her.

“I looked for you,” she said. “I was afraid you might be gone, that I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered. “I felt like I’d forced my company onto you enough for—”

She stepped forward and kissed him. He made a sound of surprise, but it quickly turned into one of desire when she pushed him against the door. His hands rose to her face. He was kissing her in return, but she could feel his hesitation, his wariness. She pressed closer against him, running her hands down his sides. She reached for the button of his jeans, and he pulled his mouth away from hers.

“Sam,” he said. His hands were still on her face, his palms warm against her cheeks, and she met his eyes. “You can talk to me,” he told her.

“I don’t want to talk,” she said. “Just for tonight, I want to feel something good.” She hesitated, holding his gaze. “That’s not true,” she admitted. “Not just anything, I want _you_. I want you, Jackson, if you…if you’ll have me.”

He searched her face for several seconds. He bent his head, watching her eyes, and kissed her. His lips were gentle, and she could feel the pads of his thumbs, soft against her cheeks.

He made her feel vulnerable and safe at the same time, a combination that she could scarcely comprehend. She would normally flee at the first feelings of vulnerability, but in spite of her apprehension, she didn’t want to run. Something about him called to her, and had since she’d first laid eyes on him. He looked at her as though he were _seeing_ her, the real her, the woman she kept hidden away from the world.

He turned, and she felt the wall against her back. She ran her hands down his sides again, but this time she didn’t reach for his fly. She took hold of the bottom of his shirt and slid it upward, and he lifted his arms, pulling his mouth from hers long enough to let her tug the shirt over his head. Then he claimed her mouth again as she slid her hands over his stomach, his chest, his arms. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, all of it.

He turned his head and his lips were soft and damp against her jaw, the crook of her neck, her throat. She tipped her head back against the wall and held onto his shoulders, arching against him, needing to be closer.

“Jackson,” she said, and she could hear the plea in her own voice.

“Sam,” he answered against her throat. One of his hands slid under her shirt, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric of her bra as he cupped her breast. He sucked gently at the sensitive skin of her throat, and she made a sound, desperate to feel more of him. She lifted a leg, hooking it around his hips, and she could feel his growing arousal.

“I need you,” she breathed, something she’d never said before. “Please, Jackson.”

He grabbed the backs of her thighs and lifted her. She threw her other leg around him and held onto his neck. He covered her mouth with his again as he spun, carrying her toward the bed. In just a few seconds, he was lowering her onto the mattress, still kissing her. His arousal was nestled between her thighs, and she shifted, trying to pull him closer, her legs still around him.

His hands were hot against her stomach, and he pushed her shirt up, his fingers splayed over her ribcage. He pulled back, and she reluctantly dropped her legs away from his hips. A moment later, his lips were pressed against the bare skin of her stomach, and a shiver passed through her.

While he trailed kisses across her belly, one of his thumbs found her nipple—with uncanny ease—through the cup of her bra. She grabbed at his bare shoulders; she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone as badly as she wanted him. She wanted him to hurry, but she also wanted the moment to last forever.

He seemed to have no intention of hurrying.

His mouth was slowly driving her insane with need—and that was only her stomach. The ache between her legs was building, and she wanted his tongue to move a few inches lower. His thumb was lazily teasing her nipple, and she wanted the barrier of her bra to disappear.

She wanted _all_ the barriers between them to disappear.

He turned, reaching back to slip off her shoe. She made a sound of protest, when his mouth left her skin, that shocked her. He chuckled lightly, but instead of embarrassing her, his laugh only made her want him more.

He pulled off her shoe and sock, and then the other, dropping them to the floor. In just a few seconds, his fingers were at the button of her jeans, but his movements were still unhurried. He lowered her zipper and gently tugged the jeans over her hips; she shifted her legs, trying to make it easier, wanting the restricting garment _gone_. While he was pulling her jeans off and tossing them aside, she levered herself up and stripped her shirt over her head, throwing it past the edge of the bed. She unhooked her bra and pulled it off, too.

Jackson turned, his gaze sliding up the length of her body until their eyes met. He leaned forward and kissed her lips, but it was quick. She felt his hand on her inner thigh and she spread her legs further, wanting—needing—to give him better access. He shifted, and his middle finger found her clit through the thin cotton of her panties. His mouth closed around her breast at the same moment, his tongue flicking her nipple, and she gasped in surprise at the dual assault on her senses. She grabbed at his hair, tipping her head back as she arched, involuntarily, against his hand.

His fingers were gentle, massaging her through her dampening underwear, and he matched the rhythm with his tongue on her nipple. The pressure within her was building at an alarming rate; his ministrations were hurtling her toward climax more quickly than she’d imagined possible. She shifted against his hand, again.

“Jackson,” she said; his name was all she could manage.

He lifted his head and his mouth found hers. He kissed her while his fingers moved faster, rougher against her panties, and she arched her back, gasping into his mouth as her orgasm crashed over her. She shuddered against his hand, her muscles clenching as she tried to draw him closer.

He released her mouth and she pulled in a deep breath, blinking as she tried to make sense of how quickly he’d taken her over the edge—and the fact that he was still half-dressed. Before she could say anything, he took hold of her hips and shifted her further up the bed. He hooked his fingers into the elastic of her underwear and slid the panties past her thighs, down her legs, discarding them. In a heartbeat, she felt his breath between her legs, and she closed her eyes, once more saying his name.

His mouth closed around her, his tongue finding her sensitized clit, and she bucked against his face, gasping. Her hands were buried in his hair, and all she could do was hold on. Tremors rippled through her and then, almost without warning, she came again, crying out his name as she arched against his mouth.

He pushed to his feet and she watched, barely capable of rational thought, as he stripped out of his jeans and underwear. He was back in a moment, trailing kisses up her thigh, over her belly, across her breasts, her chest, up to her mouth. She shivered, running her hands over his shoulders, down his back, cupping her palms around his bare ass to pull him closer. She could feel his erection against her hip and she shifted, turning her mouth from his.

His hand was between her legs again, and she bit back a moan, closing her eyes for a moment. “Wait,” she managed, and his fingers stilled. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her. “I want _you_ ,” she said, reaching a hand between them to wrap her fingers around his erection. A shiver passed through his body, and she felt him twitch in her hand. He held her gaze, his eyelids heavy with desire. He lowered his head, pressing his lips against hers.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed so much, if ever.

He pushed himself backward, slipping his erection from her grasp, and she blinked in surprise as his warmth disappeared from her body. She levered herself up on her elbows, watching as he tore open a small foil package. She didn’t know where it had come from, or how he’d had the presence of mind; she’d certainly been thinking of nothing so responsible.

She watched him roll on the condom before dragging her gaze up to his. She saw his lips curve into a smile, and she held out a hand, motioning for him. His body once more covered hers, and his hands were all over her—gently kneading her breast, tracing the curve of her hip, trailing along the hollow of her shoulder, tickling her inner thigh. She couldn’t keep track. Her skin was tingling everywhere he’d touched, her whole body on fire with desire.

So far, he’d gotten almost nothing in return.

Sam pushed at his chest, and he didn’t resist as she rolled him onto his back. In a few moments, she was straddling his stomach, and his hands were resting lightly on her hips. She ran her hands over his chest. He shifted his shoulders and she felt his stomach tightening against her inner thighs. She could feel his erection behind her, and she kissed him while she shifted her hips backward. He groaned against her mouth, and she reached between their bodies, taking his arousal in her hand.

He flexed his hips beneath her, pushing himself into her palm, and part of her was sorry that he’d already applied the condom. She wanted to feel him, his silky length against her hand. There was no time to worry about it, though. She could see the tightness in his expression, could feel the quivering of his muscles beneath her, and she levered herself up.

Holding him loosely in her hand, she positioned herself over his erection. His lips were parted, his fingertips pressing into her hips.

As she lowered herself partway down, she withdrew her hand and paused, meeting his eyes.

He was breathing shallowly through his mouth, his bright gaze fixed on hers. He slid his hand from her waist, and his fingers once more found her clit. She gasped in surprise, sinking down his length. He smiled, stroking lazily with his thumb. He shifted his hips beneath her, the muscles in his abdomen tightening.

She didn’t immediately move, taking a few moments to savor the feeling of fullness. She spread her palms over his stomach, relishing the way he quivered at her touch.

He needed release, though, and she wanted to watch his face as she pushed him over the edge. Bracing her hands on his abdomen, she started moving her hips, watching his eyelids droop. His thumb was still massaging her, and she increased her rhythm, determined to bring him to climax before he could make her lose control again.

He wasn’t moving his hips beneath her, but she could feel the tension in his muscles, could sense the effort it was taking for him to hold back and let her set the pace. She worked her hips faster, harder, and both of his hands were back at her waist, holding onto her. He said her name on a breath as he thrust upward, once, involuntarily, filling her completely as he came inside the sheath of his condom.

His hand fumbled its way between them, again, even as the tremors were still wracking his body, but she was already coming apart before his fingers found her most sensitive spot. At the light pressure of his fingers, she cried out, tightening around him, closing her eyes as her third orgasm stole her breath. She jerked and shuddered against his hand, and then he’d curved an arm around her shoulders and was pulling her down for another kiss. She collapsed against his chest, feeling weak and shaky as their mouths met.

He wrapped both arms around her, holding her against himself. She had to pull away from his mouth to draw a ragged breath, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder, shivering from the aftershocks of her orgasm. He kissed the top of her head.

“Sam,” he breathed into her hair. She could feel the thud of his heart.

“Jackson,” she murmured in return, and his arms tightened around her.

 

*       *       *

 

Sam eased out of bed and quietly began gathering up her clothes. She was holding her shirt clutched to her chest, bending down to peer beneath the bed for her bra, when she realized that Jackson was watching her.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said, quietly.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” she answered, feeling self-conscious. “I should get back to the bus…” She snatched her bra off the floor and straightened.

He was lying on his side, with his hand beneath his cheek. “Would you think less of me if I asked you to stay?” he asked. His voice was soft, and so was his expression. She felt a flutter in her stomach, something close to nervousness.

“Less of you?” she asked, confused.

He smiled. “Sorry, is that not possible?” he said. His tone was light, joking, but she felt compelled to reassure him.

“That’s not what I—” She chewed her lip for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t respect you,” she said.

“And I wouldn’t want you to think I’m needy,” he answered. “It’s late. Come back to bed.”

Normally, she would bristle at something so close to a command. Except…it didn’t sound that way, not when he said it. And as she regarded him, she found that she really didn’t _want_ to leave. Lying there with his hair mussed, his jaw stubbled, his eyes bright and watchful, naked—though covered from the waist down by a tangle of blankets—he was both sexy and adorable. Appealing, in a way that frightened her.

She was afraid of how badly she wanted to crawl under the covers beside him, to curl into his warmth and drift to sleep with his scent in her nostrils.

What could it hurt, though? After Monday, she would never see him again. He would move on to another revival, and she and Jonas and _their_ revival would move on to another town.

She walked to the edge of the bed, dropping her clothes to the floor. She wasn’t sure why she felt so shy as she crawled onto the bed, or why she felt just a bit emotional about the fact that he pulled the covers up over her. He leaned over and kissed her, and she expected him to want more. She wouldn’t have objected—her body responded quickly and naturally to his—even though she was tired and inexplicably emotional.

After a quick kiss on her lips, however, he kissed her shoulder and settled his head on the pillow beside hers, putting his arm over her. She turned her head a bit so she could see his face. His eyes were closed, and she felt herself relaxing into his heat.

“Goodnight, Sam,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but she found herself turning toward him. He lifted his arm, and she curled against his chest, closing her eyes. His arm once more settled over her, and he kissed the top of her head. Within a minute, he was asleep. She could feel the steady drum of his heart, and his breaths were soft and even. The rhythms of his body quickly lulled her into an easy sleep.

 

*       *       *

 

When she woke, she was alone in the bed. She was surprised. She was normally a light sleeper, and wouldn’t have believed that someone could get out of bed—especially when the last thing she remembered was being tucked up against his body—without waking her.

She stayed there for a couple of minutes, listening. She could hear Jackson moving around in the bathroom. She could also smell bacon and eggs, and coffee, and knew that he’d gotten breakfast. After a moment, she spotted the white takeout containers beside the television. Her stomach rumbled at the scent, and she frowned. She wasn’t about to invite herself to share his breakfast; she already couldn’t believe she’d crawled back into bed and spent the whole night with him—let alone being curled up in his arms like…like…

She sat up and shook her head to clear it. _What the hell is wrong with you?_ she thought. She leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed her shirt off the floor, quickly pulling it over her head. She was debating whether or not to throw on her jeans and sneak out, but before she’d made a decision, Jackson stepped out of the bathroom.

He was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt—white—that was open at the collar. He hadn’t shaved but appeared to have smoothed his hair.

Not only had he managed to leave the bed without waking her, he’d gotten dressed and, presumably, left to get breakfast. She couldn’t remember ever having slept so soundly.

He saw her sitting on the bed in her t-shirt, and he smiled at her. Her heart did a strange little skip in her chest. It was a _real_ smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was genuinely happy to see her, and she wasn’t sure how to process that.

He walked over to the bed. “Good morning,” he said quietly, still smiling.

“Morning,” she muttered. She knew that her hair was a tangled mess. She was probably a scary sight, and she was naked from the waist down, covered only with the sheet. “You seem cheerful.”

Grinning, Jackson put a knee on the edge of the bed and leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of her hips. He kissed her; she could taste coffee, and she could smell his cologne, and desire bloomed in her belly. She sank back against the pillow, and he followed her down, smiling against her lips.

She found herself smiling in return; she couldn’t help it. He lifted his head a bit to look at her, and she suddenly forgot that she had messy hair and no makeup and morning breath. When he looked at her, she felt beautiful.

“I don’t usually stay until morning,” she admitted quietly.

He kissed her, again, and said, “I’m glad you stayed.”

“I just made myself sound like a whore,” she muttered.

He gave his head a little shake. “Lonely,” he countered, his voice and eyes soft. He rolled onto his side, propping his cheek on his fist as he looked at her. “Sam, I don’t…know you very well, and I…don’t want to ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But I’d _like_ to get to know you, and I want you to know that I’m willing to try and make that work, whatever it means.”

After a moment, she turned onto her side, too, so they were facing each other. “My real name is Samantha Newton,” she said, quietly. “But that feels like a different person. Jonas chose the name Nightingale, and that feels…truer. I don’t even remember my mother, and my father was…the meanest sort of drunk. He wasn’t so nice when he was sober, either, but it was worse when he’d been drinking. And he hated Jonas, because Jonas was everything he wasn’t. Smart and funny, creative, kind. And happy. When we were little, he was so optimistic about life, it seemed impossible that even our father could beat it out of him.

“But he did, a little at a time. I could see it happening and I couldn’t do anything.”

“You were just a child, Sam.”

“We were both kids, Jackson. He sacrificed his…light, for me. And all I can think is that…I don’t deserve it. I haven’t done anything in my life to be worthy of what he’s given up for me.”

“Sam,” Jackson said on a sigh. “I’d argue that you’ve given up just as much for him, but that’s not really the point. I can’t tell you how to live your life, but I can tell you it isn’t over. There’s still time to have the life you want. You think you can’t leave him, that you owe him the rest of your life, but I promise you, he doesn’t want that. If you want my opinion, I think it’s likely that he’s carrying the same guilt you are. That he couldn’t protect you, that he’s not worthy of what you’ve given up.”

“How do I set him free?” she asked. It was the question she’d never been able to ask Jonas, the one she’d never been able to answer for herself.

“By being happy,” he answered.

She considered that. It seemed so simple, and yet… “I’m not sure I know how,” she admitted.

He lifted a hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I wish I could answer that for you,” he murmured. “But I have absolute faith that you’ll figure it out, and when you do…I’d love to hear from you. Maybe look up one day to find you walking into my classroom…”

She smiled. “You don’t sleep with your students,” she reminded him.

He chuckled. “I meant for a visit,” he said. “But if you decided to enroll, well, we’d both just have to suffer through the semester.”

She laughed. “Maybe you could let me observe for free, and I wouldn’t technically be a student.”

He was still smiling, but his eyes were serious as he regarded her. “I look forward to it,” he said.

She shifted toward him, and he met her kiss halfway. She rolled onto her back, pulling him with her, and he covered her body with his as he kissed her. His hand slid beneath her shirt, and her nipple hardened against his palm.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Will you spend the day with me?” he asked.

She studied his face for a few moments, noting his sincerity, his hope, and a touch of nervousness. “Yes,” she said. _Kiss me again_ , she thought, amazed that she wasn’t tired of his lips, yet. Smiling, as though reading her mind, he touched his mouth to hers.

 

*       *       *

 

“Is it true that Ida Mae and the Angels haven’t been paid in months?”

“Jonas, I—”

“Is it true, Sam?”

“I told you I was worried,” she said, feeling defensive. “But you didn’t want to listen.”

Jonas nodded. She expected him to argue, to point out the fact that she’d never told him just how bad their financial situation had gotten, but he didn’t. “I know,” he said instead. “And I’m sorry. You’ve been carrying a weight that wasn’t yours. But that ends now.”

His words, and his obvious resolve, filled her with apprehension. “What are you saying?” she asked.

“You’ve been running the show for years, Sam. And all I’ve done is make your job harder. But—”

“No, Jonas,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You’re wrong. You _are_ the show. You’re the one people come to see, you’re the one who’s kept everything together. Kept _us_ together. You saved us, over and over again, and I started to take it for granted that you—that you always do whatever it takes. You always come through for us, for the Angels, for the show. I took it for granted and I’ve let you give up too—no, I’ve _asked_ you for too much, and you never say no.”

He smiled. “I say no to you all the time, sis, you just don’t listen.”

“ _No_ ,” she stressed, squeezing his arm. “You drag your feet and complain and put up token resistance and then you _do it_ , you do _everything_ , you chip off pieces of yourself and fling them to the crowd. And the rest of us? We just tag along, living off your sacrifice.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“No, you’re not giving yourself enough,” she countered. “Jonas, you think you sold your soul. But you didn’t. I sold it, or at least brokered the deal. This isn’t the person I want to be,” she said, spreading her arms. “I tried to force you to convince a kid that you could heal him and I tried to convince my _self_ that it was justifiable because it was for the greater good. That the possible trauma to an already traumatized kid was an…acceptable risk. And you balked. And I…I would’ve done it anyway. I would’ve forced you into it because that’s what I do, isn’t it? I let you do all the feeling, all the caring, and I just…take care of business.

“I don’t let myself get emotional, right? I met somebody I actually liked and I didn’t even know what to do because it’s been so long.” She saw Jonas’s gaze shift toward Jackson, who was at the other end of the tent talking into his phone. “And something happened between you and the sheriff, something more than just sex, you can’t tell me otherwise. We deserve to be happy, Jonas.”

Jonas caught Ida Mae’s eye and motioned her over. When the older woman had joined them, Jonas put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I want you to know that you—both of you, and the Angels—have been _my_ salvation, you two especially have kept me going through some dark times. Ida Mae, I will make it right, I give you my word.”

She patted his arm. “We never doubted you, my boy,” she said with a smile.

“I will take care of it,” he told Sam.

His sister shook her head. “Jonas, you’re not listening—”

“No, Sam, I _am_ listening,” he said, quietly. “I’m hearing you, I promise. You two have stuck with me, and I love you for it. I just need you to trust me a little bit longer.”

“Son, you know I’m with you to the end,” Ida Mae said. Jonas bent forward and kissed her cheek, giving her a hug. Then he looked at Sam.

“Promise me you’ll be okay, Jonas,” his sister said.

He smiled. “I promise. We’ll be okay,” he answered.

“I’ll do whatever you think is best,” Sam said after a few moments of silence.

 

*       *       *

 

When Jonas walked onto the stage with his guitar, a hush fell over the crowd. Sam could see a ripple of confusion pass through the audience, saw people exchanging glances. She saw her brother look at the sheriff for just a moment before quickly looking away. He looked at the kid in the wheelchair, up front near the stage. The boy offered Jonas a smile of encouragement, and in that moment, Sam knew that Jonas would give up everything—his very life—to be able to help Jake.

_He believes in you, Jonas_ , she thought. _There’s still a chance._

The Angels were on their marks, but they were silent. Jonas walked to the middle of the stage.

“Jonas?” Sam asked, softly, into her mic. He looked over at her and nodded.

Jonas faced the audience and started playing. Sam felt Jackson squeeze her hand, and she looked over at him, grateful for his presence.

Jonas started pacing as he played Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” on the guitar. The audience was silent, still not sure what to think. It wasn’t gospel music, and it wasn’t what they’d expected, but it was a song that Sam knew had always soothed him. It was difficult to play on guitar, and he’d never performed it on stage before. He seemed to play it effortlessly, though. He walked the stage, scanning the audience, meeting their eyes, reading their desperation.

He transitioned from Pachelbel into “Rise Up,” and the Angels, led by Ida Mae, started singing a subdued version of the song. He walked back to his spot on the center of the stage.

“My name is Jonas Nightingale,” he said, his gaze skimming the faces. Some were familiar, the citizens of Sweetwater; others were new. “But that wasn’t always the case,” he continued, and another murmur passed through the audience. “Who here has read Romeo and Juliet?” he asked. He nodded as half the audience members raised their hands. “The nightingale didn’t bring good fortune, did it?” He smiled as a nervous titter of laughter rippled through the tent. He ran his fingers over the strings of his guitar, gathering his thoughts. “I chose the name because all I ever wanted to do was sing. My father was less than encouraging of that dream. But my sister, Sam,” he said, turning to look at her with a gesture of his chin, “she always believed in me. She told me once, when I was nine and she was seven, that God was going to send a whale to rescue us. She’d learned about Jonah in Sunday school—though she’d mixed up bits of it with Pinocchio, I think,” he added, winking at Sam as the audience laughed again.

She could do nothing but watch him, mesmerized, as she held Jackson’s hand in a deathgrip.

Jonas looked at the crowd. “I was sitting in my closet with a broken arm and a bloody nose, gifts from our father, and I told my little sister that there was no such thing as God, and that no one was coming to rescue us. I looked her in the face, and I told her to grow up and to stop believing in fantasies. I was cruel, because I was hurt.” He paused, and the silence in the tent was tangible. “And my sister put her arms around me, and she said something that I will never forget.”

“Jonas,” Sam breathed, as tears burned her eyes at the memory of his pain.

“She said, ‘then you save me and I’ll save you.’ I dropped out of school to go to work after our parents died, determined to make sure she graduated even though she was a pain in the ass about it,” he said, and she laughed, glancing at Jackson with a shrug and a nod. “So I was working, scraping pennies together wherever I could, and our local preacher asked me to sing at the church picnic. I didn’t get why he’d ask, I was a sullen little heathen who hadn’t stepped inside the church in years, but I wanted to sing. I memorized some gospel, and I memorized some scripture, and I got up there in front of all those patrons in their Sunday best, me in a ratty old suit of my father’s that was too big, and I put on a _show_ , by God. I was angry about it, at the start. And then something changed.

“People were smiling, and I started to suck up their energy like a sponge. Aside from Sam, I don’t think I’d ever made anyone happy in my life. Now, someone had put out a bucket for donations. The very idea of charity made my fists clench, but Sam told me it wasn’t charity. It was payment for my performance. She called me a _prophet for profit_.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow at the crowd. “Get it?” he asked, and he was answered with nods and some laughter. “Jonah, Jonas. Prophet,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “Nightingale. I think you can follow the logic of the boy I was.”

He paused again, running his fingers absentmindedly over the guitar strings.

He glanced over at Sam, and she knew what he wanted.

“D-three,” she said, quietly. “Dry well.”

Jonas looked at the third seat in the section marked _D_. He walked toward the edge of the stage and hopped down, swinging his guitar to his back. “When Sam was a senior in high school, our well went dry,” he told the young woman. “We didn’t have a drought to worry about like you folks, but we couldn’t afford even basic repairs on the house, let alone the thousands of dollars the well-driller quoted us. I was hauling water from the creek for bathwater, and we were boiling it to drink.

“And then one day Sam came running into the store where I was working to tell me that they were out at the house drilling. By the time I got there, it was too late to stop them, and I panicked, because I had no way to pay for the work. One of the workers tried to calm me down, and I punched him in the face. He was about twice my size and promptly knocked me on my ass—more out of surprise than anything else. He could’ve squashed me like a bug. Even so, I jumped up ready to fight.

“It was the preacher who grabbed me and pulled me back. He’d stopped by to tell me that the church had taken up a collection to pay for our well.” Sam could see the tears shimmering in the young woman’s eyes as Jonas put a hand on her shoulder. “I know you feel guilty about all the help that you’ve been getting from your friends and neighbors…”

“Florence,” Sam said.

“Florence, but ask yourself this: if your roles were reversed, would you hesitate to help?” She shook her head, and Jonas continued, “The rain will come, I promise you. You will get back on your feet. I know it feels hopeless. I used to lie on my bed, staring at my ceiling, my stomach full of knots and acid, unsure how I’d provide our next meal or pay the following month’s electric bill. But someone told me that when you feel like you’re drowning, there’s usually someone willing to throw you a lifeline if you look around. You just have to be willing to take it.” He straightened and looked at the sheriff again.

“A-fourteen,” Sam said. “Alcoholic.”

Jonas walked over to the man, who looked up at him apprehensively. “When I was nineteen, I stole a twelve-pack of Pabst from the gas station. It was easy. The attendant was in his seventies and more likely to fall asleep behind the counter than not. I used to steal cigarettes because there was no way I could afford to buy them.

“Anyway, I got hammered, and I was wandering around town, and someone offered me a ride. The preacher’s wife—the same preacher who’d let me perform at that picnic, who’d organized a fund for our well. His wife drove me onto a two-track a mile from my house, and we had sex in her car. I was so drunk that I barely remembered it in the morning, but I remembered enough.

“She was more than twice my age, but I knew that I was responsible. I’d made the choices that led to that road. And I couldn’t confess, because I wanted to protect her. I wanted to protect her husband. And I wanted to protect myself. So I just let it eat away at me, and I drank more and more until I got caught stealing a bottle of vodka from the station. I spent the night in jail, and it was the preacher who picked me up in the morning.

“He knew already. I don’t know if she’d told him or if he’d just guessed, but he knew. And do you know what he did? He forgave me. He told me that we don’t have to be defined by our poor choices, that there’s always time for redemption if we’re willing to work for it.

“I’ve found myself in ditches, in strangers’ beds, in jail, even passed out beneath a church pew. It always starts the same. I feel like I’m drowning, or suffocating, like there’s no way out of the hole I’m in and the sides are caving in on me, and all I want is to shut off my traitorous mind for a few minutes, just to get some relief. The bottle helps for a bit, doesn’t it? But it’s a false prophet, my brother, and you know as well as I do that it solves nothing.

“That preacher forgiving me didn’t solve anything, either. All that did was add to my guilt. Confessing our sins is the first step toward redemption—”

“Harold,” Sam said.

“Harold, but the final step is forgiveness. Not from others, but from ourselves. We have to accept that our transgressions are a part of us, but they are not all that we are. The world can seem hopeless, but I promise you that the alcohol makes it worse. Things aren’t as bleak as they seem from the bottom of the bottle. Ask for help and you shall receive it.”

Jonas turned, adjusting his guitar. Sam said, “C-seven. Cheating on his wife. His name’s Scott.”

Jonas took a breath as he approached the man. “I won’t lie, Scott,” he said. “I’ve slept with married women, and men. I told myself it wasn’t that big a deal because they were clearly unhappy in their marriages. I tried not to think about their spouses, and how they would feel. I tried not to think of each and every one of them as that preacher. But they deserved better, and your beautiful wife here deserves better. You can change, Scott, and maybe she’ll forgive you. But you,” he said, turning to the young woman.

“Janie.”

“You deserve better, Janie,” he said. “Don’t settle for someone who doesn’t treat you with respect. Don’t settle for someone like me.”

“At least you weren’t married!” someone called out, and Jonas lifted his head, holding up a hand.

“No, I wasn’t married,” he said, “but I was still hurting people. Qualifications are dangerous, my friend, because we start to give ourselves permission to put our own desires ahead of everyone else’s.”

Sam gave him another seat, and Jonas turned in that direction.

For the next hour, he traveled through the crowd, confessing his sins, admitting his moments of weakness and despair. There were more and more heckles from the crowd as many of the people grew restless and irritable. This wasn’t what they’d come to see.

Jonas turned and walked onto the stage. He faced the crowd and waited while they grumbled amongst themselves. Finally, they began to quiet, their curiosity getting the best of them.

“I can’t offer you a miracle,” Jonas said, and there were a few angry shouts. Jonas paused. “I’m not even sure I believe in miracles,” he continued.

“You’re a fraud!” someone shouted.

Sam’s stomach clenched. She was afraid for him. She wanted to protect him, because she knew that their words had the power to hurt him.

“Yes,” Jonas agreed.

“No!” Jake shouted, and Sam looked toward him, surprised. The boy wheeled his chair forward and faced the crowd. “You’re not listening!” he told them. “He’s talking about life! Don’t you get it? _Life_ is a miracle!” Sam could tell by her brother’s expression that it was something he and the boy had discussed. “We’re all alive!” Jake said.

Sam saw Jonas glance upward at the sound of thunder outside. There’d been several short, dry thunderstorms since they’d been in Sweetwater, and no one seemed to pay any attention to this rumble. Except Jonas. Sam could see something else on his face, something like hope.

“Jake,” he said, and the boy turned to look at him.

“You came to save us, Jonas,” Jake said.

Jonas shook his head. “No, son,” he answered. “They’re right, I’m a fraud. But it ends tonight.” He looked out at the crowd. “These Angels behind me have stuck with me when I didn’t deserve it. My sister has given up her own dreams so that I could stand on a stage each weekend. I’ve lied, robbed, cheated—Everyone here has sinned in some way, small or large, but you’re not alone. I’ve committed more sins than all of you. Tonight is about atonement. It’ll take me longer than one night to pay them back, but for the rest of you, you’ll notice the baskets at the ends of these aisles? That’s all the money that’s been collected from the citizens of Sweetwater. I trust you’ll take what you gave.

“As for those of you we owe money,” he said, nodding toward the garage owner seated in the front row, “you will be paid. Over the next week, I’ll be liquidating my assets to pay my debts. If you don’t want to wait, I have a title I’ll sign over—”

“Jonas,” Sam said. He looked over at her and offered a small smile.

“I only ever wanted to make people happy,” he said. “I wanted to sing, I wanted to make people smile, and I wanted to make my sister proud.” He looked at the crowd. “You have no reason to believe me, but I want you all to be happy. If I could, I would—”

“No,” Jake repeated, and Jonas looked down as the boy rolled himself over the nearest basket. “You came to save us, Jonas!” he repeated. “I believe in you, you just have to believe in yourself.” The boy shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of dollar bills and change, dropping the whole mess into the collection.

There was a loud clap of thunder, and Sam saw more people looking up at the tent, now.

“You said, music is life and life is magic and we just have to listen and believe. Well, I do,” Jake said.

“Jake,” Jonas said, and Sam could hear the rawness in his voice. He stepped toward the edge of the stage but stopped when Florence, the young woman with the dry well, got to her feet and walked to Jake’s side.

“I believe that everyone deserves a lifeline,” she said, dropping money into the basket. She ruffled Jake’s hair, and the boy smiled up at her, his relief evident. She looked up at Jonas. “And new beginnings,” she added.

One by one, people started rising and making their way to the baskets, dropping money into the collections. Jonas took a step backward, and then another. He looked at the sheriff as the man walked over to stand beside his son.

Sam felt like her heart was going to explode in her chest.

She saw people looking around at each other, and looking up, and she suddenly realized that the pounding sound wasn’t just her heart. It was rain, beating against the tent. She called her brother’s name, but he didn’t seem to hear her. The crowd surged toward the exit, and Jonas watched as the sheriff took hold of Jake’s chair and wheeled him into the crowd, calling to his deputies to make sure people stayed calm as they tried to get outside.

The Angels filed off the stage, also headed outside. Jonas looked over at Sam as she and Jackson walked onto the stage.

“Rain, Jonas,” she said, unnecessarily. “Come on.” She reached for his hand, but he stepped back, pulling his guitar strap over his head.

“You go,” he told her. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Jonas—”

“I’ll be right out, I promise,” he said, turning to set his guitar on the stage.

She hesitated, but Jackson’s hand was light at the small of her back, and he offered her a smile when she glanced at him. She let him walk her toward the exit flap, following the crowd, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. She turned her face up into the wetness, laughing in disbelief. Jackson’s arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her close to kiss her temple. She turned toward him, pressing her wet lips against his, clutching the front of his soaked shirt.

She knew by the reaction of the crowd that Jonas had stepped outside, and she turned toward him as people spread apart to let him pass.  

Jonas walked over to the boy’s chair. Jake looked at him, still smiling, and Jonas lowered himself into a crouch. Sam suddenly realized what he was doing, and her heart leapt into her throat. She held tightly to Jackson, thinking, _Please, please_. _He needs this—they need this, please._

“Jake,” Jonas said. “It’s time.”

The boy’s smile faltered. His hair was plastered to his forehead; rain dripped from his face. He shook his head. His chin trembled. “I can’t,” he said.

“You’ve punished yourself long enough,” Jonas said. “Look at me, son. You were wrong, I wasn’t sent here for the rain, Jake. I was sent here for you. To tell you it’s time.”

Jake stared up at him, and Sam could see the kid’s fear. But she could see the faith. The belief and _hope_. She’d told Jonas that Jake believed in him, and it was true. She was still terrified as she walked over to her brother’s side.

“Jonas,” she said, and he looked up at her. She shook her head. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him. If it didn’t work, he would lose everything of himself. She didn’t think he would ever recover.

“Yes,” he answered. His gaze cut toward the sheriff. “I do.” The sheriff started forward, but he was too far away to make it through the crowd in time. Jonas looked at Jake and said the boy’s name.

Jake swallowed, and gave a little nod. “Get me up, Jonas,” he said, quietly. All around them, people had begun to quiet and were turning toward the boy. Under the drumbeat of the rain, a hush spread through the crowd.

Jonas reached an arm behind Jake’s back, grabbing him under his arms. Sam was holding the chair to keep it steady; Jackson was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. Through the rain, she heard the sheriff call Jonas’s name.

Jonas lifted Jake to his feet and held him up, seeming to support all of his weight. The sheriff stopped at the edge of the crowd, and Jonas closed his eyes against the reluctant hope shining in the other man’s gaze.

With his eyes closed, Jonas said, “You can do this, Jake. Have faith.”

_Please,_ Sam thought again. _If you’re up there, if you’re listening, please help him._

“Jonas,” Jake said. “Let me go.”

Jonas opened his eyes and slowly lowered his hands, holding his breath. Sam wasn’t breathing, either. Jake looked at his father and stepped toward him. His knees started to buckle, and the sheriff started forward, but Jonas and Jackson grabbed Jake’s arms before he could fall.

The boy straightened his legs and lifted his chin. “Let me go,” he repeated, and Jonas and Jackson exchanged a look through the wet darkness. They pulled their hands back, and Jake stepped forward, slowly. He paused, and then took another step. The grass was slick from the rain, but his footing held. He took another step, and then his father, unable to wait any longer, met him halfway and grabbed him in a hug, lifting his feet off the ground as he kissed his son’s neck.

Jonas sank to his knees on the ground, dropping his chin to his chest. Sam felt hot tears on her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She put her hand on her brother’s head. He drew a deep, shaky breath and opened his eyes.

The sheriff was standing in front of him. Jonas’s eyes slid up to his, and he swallowed. The sheriff took his hand and hauled him to his feet, and Sam could see the emotions stamped on her brother’s face.

He pulled his hand from Sonny’s grasp and said, quietly, “I need to go.”

“Jonas,” the sheriff said as Jonas turned away. He grabbed Jonas’s arm, pulling him back around. “No more walking away,” he said. He slid his hand into Jonas’s dripping hair and bent forward, kissing him.

Sam turned toward Jackson, but Jackson was no longer beside her. She frowned, looking around, peering through the rain, but she couldn’t find him in the crowd. She glanced at her brother. He didn’t need her now.

She made her way through the throng of celebrating people, and still there was no sign of Jackson. _He can’t be gone_ , she thought. _Not without a goodbye._ She didn’t like the painful tightness in her chest or the lump in her throat.

She clenched her jaw, forcing back her tears. If he was gone, she wasn’t about to chase after him and beg him to spend more time with her. Maybe he needed time to process whatever had happened at the tent. Maybe he’d just decided it was time to leave. Either way, she had no intention of forcing her company onto him.

She turned toward the bus but had only taken a few steps before she stopped, cursing herself. She thought of his face, already familiar. His eyes, always full of kindness and good humor. His courage to be unflinchingly honest, even when facing the possibility of rejection.

_He wouldn’t just leave with no explanation_ , she thought. _Not Jackson_. Sam didn’t trust very many people, but she trusted him, already.

She turned the other way and started through the rain.

When she reached the motel, his car was not parked in the lot. She walked up to the door with her stomach full of butterflies. He’d left it ajar, and she pushed it open, walking inside. The lamp was on, and there was a note beside it. His suitcase was gone, and everything in the room was neat and tidy. He’d made the bed even though the housekeepers would have to strip the sheets, anyway.

Sam picked up the note by the corner, trying not to get it too wet as she stood, dripping on the carpet.

_Sam,_

_Given half a chance, I would beg you to come home with me. I know that’s not fair. You barely know me. What’s more, you deserve above all else to be happy, and you need to decide for yourself what will do that. I hope with all my heart to see you again, but if I don’t, please know that I will never forget you._

_Everyone deserves a new beginning, Sam. Like the kid said, life is a miracle._

_Meeting you was a miracle, too._

_Please be well. Please be happy._

_Yours,_

_Jackson_

 

She stared at the signature for a long time as her clothes made a puddle on the thin carpet. _Yours, Jackson_.

There was a business card with the note. _Jackson Neill, PhD_ was printed on the front, along with _Professor of New American Religions_.

His classroom and phone number were written on the back.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and nodded once. “Okay,” she said, and she felt the knots in her stomach loosening.

 

*       *       *

 

Jackson Neill looked up from his desk, and his lips parted in surprise.

Sam stood in the doorway, watching as the corners of his eyes crinkled, as his mouth curved into a smile. His happiness to see her—unmistakable and unadulterated—soothed the butterflies in her stomach, and she found herself smiling in return.

He put his palms on the desk and started to rise, but she held up a hand, stopping him. He sank back into his chair, his eyes tracking her as she walked toward him.

She’d been nervous, after not seeing him for weeks, afraid that she’d somehow imagined the connection they’d shared. One look at his face, however, had dispelled those worries. She stopped at his desk, holding his gaze.

“Professor Neill,” she said.

“Ms…?”

“Nightingale,” she answered. She’d decided to leave her father’s name behind for good. “You can call me Sam.”

“What can I do for you, Sam?” he asked, and his soft voice was like a caress.

“I was told I might be able to observe your class,” she said. “Does that offer still hold?”

“For as long as you’re in town,” he answered, searching her face.

“That might be a while,” she said. “I enrolled this morning. Figured I’d ease into the whole higher education thing.”

“Not my class?” he asked.

She put her knuckles on the desk and leaned forward. “No. I was afraid there might be a conflict of interests.”

“How’s that?” he asked, and she could see the amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“I was hoping I could convince you to have dinner with me.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Nightingale?”

“Yes.”

“Then I accept your invitation, with what I _hope_ is not an indecent level of eagerness.”

She grinned at him. “I missed you,” she admitted.

He leaned forward, and she pressed her lips against his. When he pulled back to look at her, he said, “I’ve missed you, too, Sam.”

“Sorry it took me so long. I had things to take care of,” she answered.

He shook his head. “You’re right on time,” he said.

 


End file.
